


A Nightly Argument

by DynamicThesaurus



Category: Dark Souls (Video Games), Dark Souls III
Genre: Gen, Not Incest, Sibling Devotion, Surprisingly Little Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:33:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25357786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DynamicThesaurus/pseuds/DynamicThesaurus
Summary: A quiet moment, taken in the absence of a dogged contender.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 22





	A Nightly Argument

The once-destined Lord rouses slowly. He blinks into the stillness of the throne room, traces a shadow on his pillow. Feels his lungs expand and contract. The air is cold. He spends those first minutes of consciousness easing out the ache in stiffened limbs; he bends each knee one at a time, his body protesting the effort, curls his fingers against the sheets and hears them rustle as long, deformed claws drag against the fabric. There is nothing to disturb his ritual…and that, in itself, is a disturbance. He struggles to a sitting position and rests there a moment.

The thick doors muffle the noise of the undead who stand outside, and so it is unfathomably quiet. It is the same quiet as of the castle in his youth, servants bustling and knights training and priests debating their theories, all of them falling hushed as they passed the young Prince’s chambers.

Even then, there was always one soul kind enough to visit. Yet his bed is empty. Lothric crawls forward with a sigh and looks down to where he knows his brother will be.

As he expected. Lorian kneels at the foot of Lothric’s throne, docile, the gilded tips of his crown bent towards the floor. His armour is cold to the touch. Lothric strokes bone-white fingertips down the overlapping plates and hears him let out a quiet, wordless sigh in response.

“Oh, brother…” Lothric speaks softly, lifting his hand to trail through Lorian’s hair. “Your devotion honours me, even now. Yet there is no need for such abasement. This throne is large enough for two.”

As he speaks, he turns his hand, offering an upturned palm to the cold air of the throne room. An armoured hand slips into his and slowly Lorian rises to his feet. At a tilt of the head he leans his sword against one charred bedpost.

“There we are. Our rest is best when taken together, is it not?”

His brother smiles in response, armour scraping against itself as he climbs onto the bed. It slows him, labours his movements. No, that won’t do. Lothric clicks his tongue, chiding.

“That armour suits you greatly, yet it must weigh on tired limbs. I shall help you undress.”

Lorian lifts his gaze towards the door. It is clear that he worries for the arrival of another Unkindled, a risen undead come to claim their cinders. His sword may be retrieved momentarily, yet the same may not be said of armour. Lothric cannot deny his brother this concern. But it has been far too long since Lorian slept.

“Take thine rest. I doubt we will be disturbed in the next few hours.”

Handsome lips press tight, conflicted.

“If you will not do it for yourself, then do it for me. Your strong vitality leaves you warmer than I on nights like these, and I fear I am growing cold.” He wraps an arm around his thin waist and feigns a shiver, the swaddling cloth of his robes rustling with the movement.

A worried breath is the response. Ah, and so the path to success is made simple. _Apologies, brother. It had to be done._

Lorian removes his gauntlets first. He rests them atop the sheets, then turns to let Lothric unhook the clasps of his breastplate. That, too, is discarded, as well as the greaves, the boots that weigh almost more than Lothric himself and the platemail arms. The helm is set aside. Only then does Lothric allow his brother to touch his forehead and assure himself that there is no fever, no chill. He dips his head in apology for the minor falsehood, but cannot regret it as Lorian sheds the last of his padding.

Clad in his underclothes, the knight’s exhaustion is palpable. Lothric motions for him to lay supine on the bed, head cradled by an embroidered down pillow that has long since lost its lustre. He fits himself into the space under Lorian’s armpit, feeling warmth encircle his frail body, and sighs.

To say that he prefers his brother’s embrace is not to discount all others. As a boy he was never lost for people to hold him. His mother cradled a blessed vision of the future in her arms, Oceiros clutched something treasured, something valuable. Emma’s hands held the kingdom's saviour. He cannot disregard the love they had for him then.

Lorian’s gaze was simply unique, in that it fell upon the child that Lothric had always wished to be.

As if sensing his thoughts, Lorian pulls him closer. The young prince smiles, then laughs airily as the heavy blanket is draped over them both.

“The harshest winter melts at such tenderness.” He lays a hand on Lorian’s chest and closes his eyes. “Yes, for your question. I am certain I will sleep well now.”

The last thing he feels before sleep comes is the press of a kiss to his hair.


End file.
